Patchwork
by Castoro Chiaro
Summary: She wanted to kill him. No more threats, no more warnings. She wanted to destroy every fiber of his being and would do so in the slowest, most painful manner possible. One-shot. Drabble.


I feel I should start by shaking a fist at gothicorca1895. Because of her obsessing over Other Wybie, I've found myself oddly captivated by his character. He seems to be my Auto of the Coraline fandom; an interest that wasn't necessarily created by what happened in the movie, but what_ could_ have happened. So I randomly wrote this incredibly morbid, depressing oneshot for him! How 'bout that? Seriously, this is the darkest thing I've ever written. Hm. I'll leave it up to you guys to tell me if I should ever write like this again.

**Disclaimer**: Coraline's not mine. She's Wybie's :D (_gets smacked extra hard by Coraline_) OW! Worth it...

---

_Patchwork_

---

She wanted to kill him.

No more threats, no more warnings. She wanted to destroy every fiber of his being and would do so in the slowest, most painful manner possible. Her fingers sliced and raked through his skin with a combination of precision and animalistic rage. Anything she could ruin, she did so with relish; his smile was not sewn now, but gashed painfully, the corners of his mouth extended in a sickly fashion. Cuts, slices, deep and bloodless, curving across every expanse of his small body. Even when he cowered in utter agony, even when his every facet of his body language pleaded for her pity, for her mercy, she did not relent. She had lost, and the Beldam was not one who took well to being beaten.

So she satisfied herself in "repairing" him. Every day. Every night. His body, his mind, anything that could experience any sort of pain, she attacked with her shear-like claws without remorse. The torture could have gone on for days, or even simply hours, he didn't know. He couldn't recall anything but the fear of it. There had been a reason, he knew, but whatever it was, it was buried. He wished it wasn't. Maybe something in that recollection would serve as some form of comfort.

He had a name once. A real name. But it was taken away by _her_, as she took everything away. She called him an Other, but oh, how he longed to be the Only. The Original. The One. If he could just remember! What use it would do, he wasn't ever sure. But something in knowing he _was_ somebody, not just a thing of sand and cloth, would make him feel more alive. Holding on would mean something.

"What an ungrateful child you've been_," _she hissed, and while he was dizzy from suffering, he had the sense she wasn't truly speaking to him. _"_I gave you life. You were nothing before me —nothing but useless sand! I give you everything —a name, a body, a life—and _this_ is how you repay my kindness? You rob me! You _betray_ me!"

Another fresh wave of pain shocked him, and he whimpered soundlessly. _Stop. Please stop_.

_"_I'm not going to kill you_,"_ she stated icily, a malicious smile in her tone. "I'm going to let you live, boy. Maybe I'd even stop if you apologized for your rudeness."

_Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

"What was that, dear? I'm not sure I understood you."

_I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I'm sorry._

"Speak up."

Pain.

_Stop—I'm sorry—stop—I'm sorry—stop._

"Use your words."

It was too much.

_Stop—stop—stop._

"Still can't hear you, love. Speak loudly so I can hear."

She was going to kill him again.

_Please—please—please—stop. I'm sorry._

Her lips curled in what was more a snarl than a grin. She withdrew her claw from his side, and inspected the fresh, deep rift she had made. The poor thing huddled in a pathetic ball. Once it had been someone; a duplicate, yes, but someone. He'd been some of her best work, so intricate and perfect. Each curl on that disgusting mop head, right down to the jacket (or what had once been a jacket)...truly an artistic piece of the greatest quality. That was why, she thought in satisfaction, she would not destroy it yet. She would only modify it until it suited her, one thread at a time.

"Sleep now," she purred, deciding she had satiated her fury for the time being.

He was alive once. Whether by her hand or not, he had been something. Someone. He longed to know who. He just had to know.

Because next time, she might finally be satisfied with her work.


End file.
